late night coffee
poetry and a pretty woman
to make eye contact with
and talk of all the colours in us
and them.
you don't know me though.
we can open all the windows
kick the dust from the porch
but leave the doors closed
as we shake our heads and try to clean
the better parts of the world
of terror and madness,
as we sweep gray from rainbows -
I don't know you, though.
your face
your eyes and
I think of school, that place I went
where I listened to teachers and their words;
the dreams I retreated to when
number columns and notes on a page
stopped talking to me,
when the sun drew me away
to rocks and water and trees -
and I tell you of
grasping, dismissible fear
and how words are just there,
how they never go away,
while you tell me of God and we-you
nod and smile and...
but you don't know
I don't know
us
yet.
21 June 2002
